  The captain gave a start. He stared a while at the man. A slow understanding smile curled at the corners of his mouth and he said, “There is no such person as the Abbot of Chalonnes. He is only a myth for the simple country folk to believe in. You are some one else.” The Abbot raised his hand. “The two archers, whom you have taken captive, are mine,” he said with great calm. “I have also an interest in the two lads. If you are wise, you will give them up.” The captain stiffened himself. “—and if I don’t?” he demanded. For a second there was no answer. The Abbot sat on his horse as silent as a statue without a stir. Then, with a gesture that was more convincing than words, he said, “Did you not hear the warning of the Dwarf?” A jar ran through us and even the captain recoiled. The Abbot had come to us straight down the road. The Dwarf, as far as we knew, was a mile or more behind us. How the two ever could have had an understanding was more than we could guess. But the captain was not easily rebuffed. “There are ten of us here, Sir Abbot,” he said pointing to his men. “You are but one. It is true you are clad in armor, but even at that you are taking a chance.” The Abbot took the reins again in his hands. “For the last time, I ask you,” he said, “will you give up your prisoners?” The captain fairly roared. “No!” he cried. The Abbot clapped his spurs into the horse’s flanks. The archers raised their bows. As he came on an arrow or two struck against his armor and dropped like dead leaves to the road. He made straight for the captain. Within the space of a single breath the horses were side by side. The captain drew a dagger and leaned far forward, but the Abbot curled his fist and bent his arm. He caught his enemy alongside the jaw with a sweeping blow. The captain’s head went back with a snap. The light left his eyes and he dropped from his horse as though he had been felled with a mighty club. That was the first stroke. The Abbot was now in the midst of us. The archers, seeing that their prisoners were only an encumbrance to their movements, loosed the ropes that bound us from their saddles. You may be sure that Charles and I, and the two captive archers made for the side of the road as fast as we were able so that we might not only be out of danger but might view a fight that promised enough of excitement. The Abbot spun the horse about. One of the men who was nearest him realized that neither arrow nor dagger could wound a man who was so finely protected, raised himself in his stirrups. He then threw himself with all his weight at his opponent. It was his intention to thus overcome him and drag him to the earth. If they once could pounce upon him they could pummel him to death, or, what was just as good, could bind him and lead him off, their prisoner. But this fellow had counted without a knowledge of the skill and adroitness of his foe. No sooner had he thrown himself forward when the Abbot bent his elbow into a kind of a crook. The sharp point of his armor was opposite the archer’s throat. With a jerk the Abbot drove it forward. It caught the man hard like the thrust of a pike or lance. He uttered a low moaning cry and toppled, like the captain, in a heap to the road. From where we were standing we saw the Abbot wheel about. Once more he dug his spurs into the horse and rode back a dozen paces. Here he turned and faced the others who were left. “He,” he cried pointing to the man who had just fallen, “is the second. Who of you will be the third?” The men looked questioningly at each other. One of them growled and said something about their fallen captain. I heard the words “disgrace” and “punishment if we return.” They glanced at us and frowned and then, although I knew it was against their wills, they drew up once more in a kind of line and faced the Abbot. Each of the archers drew taut his bow. The Abbot urged the horse forward with a touch of the spur. Eight arrows flew as straight as they could go. The eight of them crashed against the steel of the armor. A few were turned aside and sped on a little further but the most of them struck with a ring and dropped to the ground. Like a flash the archers fastened each another arrow in his bow. Then of a sudden one of them sang out, “Kill the horse! We can get him when he is dismounted on the road!” The Abbot was coming on. At the sound of the man’s voice he pulled in hard and rose in the saddle. “Touch him if you dare!” he cried and his voice rang out like a trumpet. “For every drop of his blood that’s spilled, I’ll roast one of you alive!” With that he went back to the starting place at a slow canter and then with all the deliberation in the world wheeled the horse once more about to face his foes. I saw now that he was anxious to end the fray. He dug the spurs in deeper than before. The arrows of the archers rattled against his casque and armor and fell without injury at the horse’s feet. He came on, but this time he took the mace from the saddle at his side. He struck the first man he met a blow in the arm. It cracked with a noise like the snapping of a dry branch, so by that I knew he had broken the bone. Like a flash the Abbot swung in his saddle. He struck the second man in the chest with his mailed fist. Then he rode through the others and came out in their rear. It was like mowing in a field of grain. The Abbot was the scythe and his enemies were standing stalks. At this second thrust the six of them, who had struck at him with what they had at their command, saw the futility of their attempts. They drew aside and lined themselves along the edge of the road. One of them began to unsling his quiver of arrows as a sign of submission when he glanced in an off-hand way down the road. Then he brightened up. He rose in his stirrups and uttered a loud cry to the others to follow him, sank his spurs into his horse and was off at a hard gallop. The Abbot by this time had wheeled about to face them once again. But they rode past him with the speed of the wind. I shaded my eyes and peered in the direction they were going. To my surprise I saw riding to meet them three other men, each of them on horseback with armor that covered them from head to heel. And what troubled me most was that the foremost carried a long lance in rest that sparkled and shone in the afternoon sun. A kind of fear ran through me for I realized that the odds were against us. It had been easy enough for the Abbot to tumble over men who were as open to attack as the archers. It would be a different thing to confront men who were armed equally as well as he, one of whom besides had a lance that could knock him from his seat before he could come at him with his shorter weapons like the sword and the mace. I waited with my breath in my throat. As soon as the Abbot saw over his shoulder these new enemies riding towards him, he touched the horse in the side and cantered slowly down the road. The three in armor spurred on faster. When the Abbot was within a stone’s throw of them he cut over to the edge of the highway. Then he hastened his speed. His enemy swerved to meet him and as the first of them came on lowered his lance to strike him full in the chest. It was this sudden turning that saved the day. As the knight with the lance drove into the Abbot he was forced to take his aim a little off the straight line. The point of the weapon struck the Abbot a hard blow on the mail under his arm. His horse veered, half staggering but continued on his course. The knight found himself in a sort of a knot, for the shaft of his lance was twisted by the swerving of the Abbot’s horse and was almost torn from his grasp. The butt of it drove back and took him on the shoulder with such force that it was within a hair of knocking him from the saddle. Then the skill of the Abbot showed itself. As soon as his horse had steadied itself, he drove his spurs into its side. As fast as he could ride he made for the two knights who were coming up in the rear. He laid his hand upon his mace and held it in readiness by his side. The two knights, who had just witnessed the smoothness with which he had warded off the attack of the rider with the lance, now braced themselves to deliver him a blow that would end the fight once for all. They saw him coming down the middle of the road. They separated with a space between them wide enough to allow him to pass through. It was plain to be seen that they intended to let him into the trap so that they could attack him with one on each side. The Abbot sped on. Little by little he verged to the edge of the road. The two knights verged with him but kept the opening between them as wide as before. They came on and on. They drove their spurs into their horses. But the Abbot never altered his pace until he was within a few feet of them. Then he drew his left rein, sharply and with great quickness. The horse under him was as sure-footed as a mountain goat. He crossed to the side of the two assailants. When he was abreast of them he swung his mace a crashing blow on the head and shoulders of the nearest rider that shook him to his heel. From where we were standing we saw the man try to shift his weapon from the one hand to the other. We heard the clang of the mace upon the ringing steel. The knight fell forward. In his helplessness he tried to hold on by grasping the horse’s mane. But his strength was gone. His fingers clutched into the empty air and he sprawled like a sack of meal to the earth. The Abbot, after he passed these two, drew up with a jerk. He wheeled around before the last of the three men could think fast enough to make a move, and before the first knight (the one with the lance) was in position to return to the fray. It was now one against one. With all odds for the final victory in favor of the Abbot, he grasped his mace in his hand and was about to put spurs to his horse to make an attack. I heard a cry from one of the archers who were now coming up at a slower pace in the rear. He rose in his saddle and pointed down the road towards the bend. Just turning into full view we saw first the glint of the sun upon bright steel. There were four men riding towards us now—four, who, if they proved to be our foes, would settle the combat without the shadow of a doubt. The Abbot lowered his mace. As though it were hardly worth his effort to strike down the last of the three who was now turning towards him to defend himself alone, he pressed his knees against the horse, and with a courage which I considered nothing more than folly rode on to meet his new foes. You will understand, of course, that what I have been telling you happened in a very short time and with a swiftness that kept our eyes dancing from spot to spot. It was a whirlwind for speed and suddenness. Most of the time I was filled with marvel. Never once did I consider, now that I was free, that I ought to find a means of escape nor did Charles or the two captive archers, I am sure, have any other thought except their interest in the fight. The Abbot took his course down the road. The men who had attacked him at the very beginning (the archers of the King) drew up on the side to let him pass. Not one of them raised his bow. With all the ease in the world they could have shot down the horse from under him, but instead they let out a shout that rang with approval. It was their sense of fairness, I suppose, that caused them to do this, and their respect for the boldness of the man. His deliberation, his surpassing skill, his ease, but above all now his utter confidence against such odds stirred their hearts with admiration and regard. The battle was to be fought further down the road. Like a crowd of spectators at a tournament we saw we had no advantage where we were standing, so swept by the fervor and excitement of it all, the two captive archers, Charles and I ran along the bank at the side of the highway. We were within earshot when the four knights and the Abbot met. Indeed the latter was maneuvering his horse to dash into the fray when the foremost of his adversaries raised his hand as a signal that he was anxious for a parley. “You are not a servant of the King?” he demanded. “I am his enemy!” came the sturdy answer. “There are four of us here,” were the next words. “Are you anxious to die?” “I shall die when my time comes, not before,” replied the Abbot. “If there were a dozen, it would make little difference.” The knight made a gesture with his hand. “We will give you every advantage,” he said. “We will fight you one by one. Before we begin, will you let me see your face?” The Abbot hesitated and then laughed. “Agreed!” he replied. “Provided you let me see yours.” Both men made a move with their hands, when the eyes of us all were drawn to the figure of a lone rider who had just come into sight around the bend in the road. He was on a horse as black as the raven’s wing. He must have been driving hard for its flanks were covered with white sweat and the froth was dripping from its mouth. The man himself was not much bigger than the Abbot. Although he was clad in a suit of black chained mail and had a casque on with the visor closed, I was able to see that his body was of unusual sturdiness with great breadth of shoulders and thickness of limb. When he came up he drew rein, and with a smoothness that I had not expected, asked, “A fight, my gentles?” The Abbot answered. “—about to begin,” he said. “Ho, ho!” was the reply. “But, I hope, not the four of you against one?” I am sure the knight flushed under his helmet at the slyness of the taunt. “Not at the same time,” he answered, and shifted uneasily on his saddle. “But no matter. He ought to die, for he is enemy of the King.” The other laughed, and slowly moved over to the side of the Abbot. “And so am I,” he answered. “Do you think I ought to die too?” The knight gathered the reins in his hands. “Who are you?” he demanded. The Abbot interrupted. “When you were coming up, my lord,” he said turning to the rider, “we were about to uncover. I have a suspicion that I know this man. He tells me that before I die he would like to know me——” But the knight made a gesture full of wrath. “We are wasting time!” he cried and put his hand to his visor. “When you drop from your saddle—dead, you will know that it was the Sieur de Marsac who killed you!” The Abbot laughed, a slow taunting laugh. “You know me as the Abbot of Chalonnes, my lord de Marsac. My shadow has hovered over these hills and valleys. I have balked your schemes and plans a hundred times,” he said impressively. “But I have worn other garbs than these,—and other faces. I have been a fool, a beggar, a highwayman—a dozen persons in one. I have watched you try trick after trick. I have snapped my fingers under your nose. All the time you thought yourself so clever, you have been but a bungler and a dunce.” He raised his visor inch by inch till his whole face was revealed. “Did you ever dream that you would be confronted, in armor such as this and on a footing equal to yours, your old friend, the Scrivener, the Highwayman of Tours?” De Marsac’s mouth fell open. He looked, as though he were in a dream, from the Scrivener to the knight on the black horse. “You!” he cried. “I have seen you, too, some time and some place before!” “You have, de Marsac,” came the reply in a voice that shook like a peal of thunder. “We have met ere this. But today it will be for the last time. I shall not raise my visor, for I think you know now it would be useless. I am Edward, the son of England’s King, the Black Prince!” |
|
